


Quidditch, A Metaphor

by fwooshy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bar Owner Blaise Zabini, M/M, Quidditch, Quidditch Manager Draco Malfoy, Quidditch Player Ginny Weasley, Quidditch Seeker Harry Potter, Tarot Card Reader Pansy Parkinson, also harry "invents" skateboard tricks but for the broom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:00:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26985553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fwooshy/pseuds/fwooshy
Summary: “No way a Wasp would join the Arrows,” Draco said. The Wasps and the Arrows ran the biggest rivalry in the league, stemming from a match over seventy-three years ago when a Wasp had beated a wasp’s nest straight to an Arrows seeker’s face.Cotton leaned in, smirking. “And wouldn’t that make it that much sweeter, when you poach him?”Damn, Draco thought. Poaching Potter. He hated to admit it, but that would be sweet.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 106





	Quidditch, A Metaphor

“Oi Malfoy! Got a moment?” Gregory Cotton called out just as Draco’s hand touched the locker room exit.

Draco stepped back to wait. Cotton was the Appleby Arrows’s longtime seeker, and since Draco had been the team manager for the Arrows for the last six years and counting, Draco always had “a moment” for Cotton.

Cotton stood in front of his locker toweling off his brown curls. Draco thought Cotton was an alright fellow, all things considered. Things had started off rocky between them at first, but everything had been rocky for Draco the first few years after the war, so he didn’t hold it against him. But Merlin, why did Cotton always want to chat when all Draco wanted to do was go home and help himself to a bottle of wine?

Draco bit his lip when Cotton pulled down a tight black shirt over his abs, his toned arms gleaming under locker room lights. Quidditch players, say what you want about them, were all just - terribly fit. It’s a wonder how Draco didn’t walk around all day with a perpetual boner.

“You looked good on the field today,” Draco said when Cotton finished getting dressed.

“Yeah? You like what you saw?” Cotton smirked. Draco flushed. The players never took him seriously when it came to the actual mechanics of Quidditch. He was just the team manager, after all, not their captain.

Cotton led them to the Apparition Point outside. “Want to grab a pint at the Phoenix?”

Draco didn’t particularly, no, but he took his arm in reply anyway. After six years, Cotton had learned that Draco never said no. Draco couldn't, in the early days, when everyone still blamed him personally for the war, and now it’d developed into a habit.

The Gilded Phoenix was among a wave of bars that had opened during the Reconstruction following the war. With its sleek black booths and clever fire-magic decor, it attracted a much younger clientele than those that typically patronized the stalwart Leaky Cauldron. It was a popular bar, and had the crowd to prove it.

Cotton ordered them two lagers and levitated them to an empty booth. An iron phoenix hung on the wall, its spread wings illuminating the lines around Cotton’s mouth, pulled down in a slight frown.

“You look nervous,” Draco said. Cotton had put up a privacy charm as soon as they sat down, which was unusual for him, because he was the type of celebrity who liked it when fans came up and asked for an autograph.

“Yeah I am,” Cotton laughed. “Well, might as well get to the point. Listen, Malfoy - you know my contract’s terminating next year.”

Draco tensed. He did know, but he hadn’t been worried about it. Cotton had been with the Arrows since his rookie years on the reserve team. He was known through the league for his loyalty; no one could poach him, although many have tried. At least, up until now.

“I’m sure we can match whatever they’re offering you,” Draco assured.

“Ah, no - you know I would never leave the Arrows, especially this late in my career. No, it’s time I properly retired. My wife’s been on about it for years and I reckon she’s right this time. I’ll only have a few years to properly get to know my kids before I lose them to Hogwarts, and you know how taxing our season is during summer hols.”

Draco could barely hear Cotton ramble over the roaring dread building in his ears. “Jackoby isn’t ready,” he accused.

Jamie Jackoby was their rookie reserve seeker, only one year out of Durmstrang. Draco had personally recruited him. It’d been a hard-won courtship; Draco had Portkey’d to nearly every one of his games over the last three years. He’d been meant to take over for Cotton. But as of now, Jackoby was still too green, still too brash to be effective in the pro league. He wouldn’t be ready for another two years, at least. Cotton knew this. And yet he still - this was betrayal.

“Yeah, you’ll have to recruit.”

“Who?” Draco said exasperatedly. Krum? No, he’d only just signed with the Tutshill Tornados.

“What about him?” Cotton nodded toward the other end of the bar.

Draco craned his head around and locked eyes with none other than Harry Potter himself.

Draco ripped his gaze away, feeling a flush build up the back of his neck.

“Why not?” Cotton was saying. “He’s been playing with the Wasps for two years now and he was reserve on Puddlemere before that. He’s probably looking for a pay bump by now. And he’s just about the only reason the Wasps have been whooping us these days. You know that.”

“I -“ Draco only just stopped himself. It would be stupid not to consider Potter just because of their schoolboy rivalry. But it wasn’t as though they had properly made up since the war either. Draco made a point to avoid Potter at Quidditch functions, of which there were many, and Potter had been more than willing to reciprocate.

So then why was Potter at this bar, alone, looking in Draco’s direction?

“No way a Wasp would join the Arrows,” Draco said instead. The Wasps and the Arrows ran the biggest rivalry in the league, stemming from a match over seventy-three years ago when a Wasp had beated a wasp’s nest straight to an Arrows seeker’s face.

Cotton leaned in, smirking. “And wouldn’t that make it that much sweeter, when you poach him?”

Damn, Draco thought. He hated to admit it, but that would be sweet. 

Cotton moved the conversation back to himself. “I’m gunning for a commentator position on the wireless in the next two years so I don’t want to hear any doubts about my expertise or my character in the press.”

Draco nodded. Cotton was right to be concerned about the press. Negative speculation always followed early retirements, especially those of players still in their prime, and Cotton was already dealing with infidelity rumors. Witch Weekly regularly released blind items about a “certain athlete with a penchant for seeking forbidden fruit”, which were mostly false, except for the ones that were true. So a statement about his renewed familial commitment would serve to redeem Cotton of both.

“They’re going to say that you don’t have a broad enough of a perspective on the league as a whole, having only ever played on one team.”

“You can let me take care of that. Just stick to your job and take care of the press, will ya?”

Draco winced. He hadn’t meant it as a jab to Cotton’s sensitive ego.

Cotton downed the rest of his pint and got up to leave. Draco watched him disappear through the Floo before picking up his own untouched pint, and taking it back to the bar.

“After all these years, I’d think he’d have picked up that you don’t like beer,” a voice said from behind. Draco turned to look. It was Potter, of course. Sticking his nose in nobody’s business again. He was right, though.

“It’s better if I’m sober when working anyway.” Draco nodded to Blaise, who was behind the bar. 

“Couldn’t take the meeting in your office, then? Had to take it at your best mate’s bar?”

“Will you do me a favor and fuck off, Potter?” Draco snarled. What was Potter implying, that he was being unprofessional? And why was he dragging Blaise into it? It wasn’t Blaise’s fault that he owned a popular bar. Blaise’s family hadn’t even allied themselves with the Death Eaters. He’d just been Slytherin, and Draco’s friend.

“Draco.” Blaise sloshed a negroni in front of him, one perfectly threaded eyebrow arched, subtly reminding Draco that Draco was a twenty-four year old ex-Death Eater at a public bar, picking a fight with the Saviour of the Wizarding World. Draco was properly chastened.

Potter snapped “Fine!” the same time Draco blurted out “Sorry-”

They both stopped.

“Sorry,” Draco started again, steadying his voice. “Long day.” He turned back to the bar and took a long pull of his drink.

“That’s - that’s okay. I’m just settling my tab and heading out.”

Potter. Draco had an open seeker position and he would be stupid to not try for Potter. The next Quidditch function wouldn’t be for another month. It would be unprofessional not to take advance of this chance meeting. Potter would be a good teammate, and Draco knew he could be fair from the way he had spoken for Draco and his mother at their war trials.

Draco was done being stupid. He caught Potter’s arm. Potter turned back, alarmed. Had Potter’s eyes always been this green?

“Actually, Potter - I wanted to talk to you about something later, if you’ve time,” Draco said, trying his hardest to ease the tremor out from his voice.

“Err.” Potter took a breath, taken aback by Draco’s proposition. “For - work? Or.” He scratched the back of his neck. “I can meet you at your office, or - elsewhere?”

“Anywhere, anytime,” Draco said. “Just owl me and I’ll be there.” He didn’t want to give Potter any scheduling excuses to back out.

“Er, okay. I’ll check my calendar tonight and let you know. Probably sometime next week, though — if it can wait?”

“Sure,” Draco said, gaze back on the liquor bottles behind the bar. He knew he ought to look at Potter when he’s talking, but he just couldn’t do it anymore.

“Alright, I’ll see you then—” a tremor of hesitation, before, “Draco.”

Draco watched Potter’s back as he hurried to the Floo and left in a blaze of green. Then Draco turned back to the bar and dropped his head in his arms.

Blaise slunk back up the bar to Draco. “What was that about?” 

“Nothing,” he murmured forlornly into his sleeves.

“If I didn’t know you any better, I’d say you were trying to pull,” Blaise smirked.

“I - never!” Draco shot up, aghast.

“I mean, he even called you by your first name, like you know, a normal, functioning adult-”

“Blaise. Please.”

“And then you said, and I quote, ‘anywhere, anytime’, my personal favorite booty-owl line—”

“I’m leaving,” Draco announced. He didn’t need to take this abuse. He had work to do. He had to make a list of seekers to court. Anyone but Potter, he prayed as he gathered his coat and put a galleon down on the counter. Anyone but Potter.

***

Potter’s owl came the next morning while Draco was distracted by the paper. Jackoby graced the sixth page - a grainy shot of him exiting Serpentine, the loudest gay club in London. Draco grimaced and made a mental note to send Jackoby a list of more discrete clubs to frequent instead. He considered prescribing supplementary glamour training as well, but then thought it a bit too much. Jackoby was only the reserve seeker, after all.

The owl nipped at Draco’s plate, trying for a slice of bacon. Draco rolled his eyes and let her have it. He was too anxious to eat. Potter’s owl had said “Today, 7PM, the Phoenix?”.

“See you there,” Draco scrawled on the back of Potter’s parchment, and attached it back to the owl’s leg.

Draco’s mind went back on to his seekers shortlist. Krum, McBride on the Portrees, Campbell on the Magpies, Summerby on the Falcons, maybe he could pull Chang on the Harpies. Except Krum was too new into his contract, and both Campbell and McBride were nearing retirement, and the others he didn’t know personally. Draco wanted an investment. Someone who would grow with the team. He wanted Jackoby, honestly, and Jackoby wanted it too.

Jackoby wasn’t going to be happy when Cotton made his retirement public.

***

Potter was already there at the bar when Draco showed up at seven. He had on a tight white tee and a pair of dark jeans like everyone did these days, except he wore it better, of course, because he was the original instigator of the Muggle trend that had dominated the wizarding world after the war.

Draco resisted an eye roll, but he too was wearing a green Muggle button down and a pair of Muggle jeans.

“Listen, Potter—” Draco started with his most businesslike tone.

“Can we drop the last names?” Harry snapped. “I’m here like you wanted, but I’m not afraid to leave, and you’re not exactly endearing yourself to me with the constant reminder that I hated you back at school.”

Draco’s words died in his throat. “I — okay. Harry then,” he conceded. What was he trying to say? He — 

“So then what—”

“I’m sorry for Hogwarts,” Draco blurted out. “I was an idiot. I made awful choices. But I never - I never thought it’d be so - so  _ bad _ —” His breath hitched.

“I know you’re not a killer, Draco,” Harry said softly. 

Draco chanced a glance up. Harry’s gaze was sympathetic behind his thin, wired rims.

“I know I’m about six years too late with this apology,” Draco joked nervously.

Harry laughed. “Hermione said it’s okay to process things at a different rate than other people.”

“She’s really gone all in on the Mind Healing business, hasn’t she? What do you think of it? Does it really work?” Hermione had introduced “Mind Healers”, a variant on what Muggles called therapists, to the wizarding world about four years ago, but it was still a contentious topic these days. Draco himself had had a heated argument with Pansy over it just last week.

“Oh, you know about it?” Harry said fondly, thinking of Hermione, “Yeah, I mean, I first only started it up as a favor to her, but I’d say it helped me process a lot. I’ve still a temper, but I know how to recognize when I’m losing it now.”

“I’ve thought about recommending it to my father,” Draco said, watching Harry’s face closely for any sign of anger before continuing, “But he’s, ah, resistant.”

“Can’t see him trying new things, honestly,” Harry said with only the barest traces of bitterness.

Draco huffed in agreement. Then he steered the conversation to Quidditch, and before he knew it, they’d gone so deep in their discussion on the effect of linseed oil on brooms that two hours had passed.

Harry excused himself then, mentioning an early training the following morning, and Draco reluctantly watched him leave through the Floo.

That night in bed Draco replayed the conversation over and over in his mind, feeling more foolish with every recollection. Draco hadn’t mentioned the open seeker position at all, he’d just gone on and on about nothing until Harry had gotten bored enough to leave, and now he’d lost his chance entirely.

The next day, though, Harry’s owl came by again with another invitation for the following week, same time, same place. Draco scribbled a happy affirmation, and attached the note before sending the owl off with a fat slice of bacon.

***

“Malfoy, I need a word,” Jackoby growled before he even hit the showers after practice a week later.

Cotton must have broken the news. Draco grimaced. He had been having such a good day too; he had been looking forward to seeing Harry later tonight. But he knew he had to deal with Jackoby first.

Draco stopped by the captain’s office. Oliver Wood only transitioned to captain two years ago after a decade playing keeper for Puddlemere, but he was already regarded as one of the best in the league because of his ruthlessness to win without overstepping the boundaries of sportsmanship. Draco hadn’t known him very well back at Hogwarts, but he’d come to respect the man for making the right choices for the team even when they were uncomfortable.

Unfortunately, this meant that he wouldn’t agree with Draco’s proposal of moving Jackoby to the starting team early. Especially not after practice today. Jackoby had flown well, like he always did. But he hadn’t flown well enough. He still went for the risky dives, still deviated from the set plays, still left his chasers hanging.

“I know what you’re going to say, and the answer is no,” Oliver said from where he was packing up his bag behind his desk. He was clearly hoping to leave.

Draco helped himself to the chair in front of Oliver’s desk anyway. “I sent you the list last week. There’s no one good.”

“Bollocks. There’s Potter.”

Draco soured. “I thought we agreed that we wanted someone who could commit to the team for the long term.”

“He can.”

“He hasn’t. He’s had a new team every two years.”

“Maybe he’s just looking for the right team—”

Draco tutted.

“Alright,” Oliver conceded, “I admit that I’m dying to captain Harry again. But also, most importantly, I want us to win, and I swear that if we get Harry, we will.”

“What about Jackoby then? You’re just going to abandon him like that?”

“What? No. It’s nothing like that. He’s still young, he could learn a lot under a seeker like Potter. And if it’s true what you say, and Potter does leave in two years, then Jackoby’ll take over for him after, and you get what you want in the end anyway. So are you happy now?”

Draco grumbled. He hated when Oliver was right.

“Don’t look so defeated. Harry’s not a sure thing, last he told me he said he really wanted to commit to the Wasps despite some of the issues he’s been having with them. So maybe if you fuck up enough, we won’t get him, and we’ll lose the championship to the Wasps again.”

“Alright, alright,” Draco exasperated, “I’m off to win the championship for us.”

“Can you talk to Jackoby about his - celebrity - too?” Oliver said as Draco was walking out.

Draco threw him a dirty look over his shoulder. But, again, Oliver was right. Jackoby was a good sport and had adhered to the list of approved clubs that Draco had sent him last week. Unfortunately the press couldn’t get enough of his - ah, enthusiasm - though, and managed to track him down every night at every possible club, bathroom stall, and alley.

To be young again, Draco enviously reminisced on a youth unfamiliar to his own.

Draco caught Jackoby just as he was walking out of the locker room. Even with his current temper, Draco could understand the media fervour over him. Who wouldn’t want to stare up at that towering height into that deep blue smolder?

“Let’s go,” those blue eyes now scowled at Draco, thick brows furrowed in frustration. Draco let Jackoby grab him by the arm and Apparate them straight to the Phoenix.

“Rough day?” Blaise asked from behind the bar. They watched Jackoby tramp over to a booth and angrily put up the appropriate privacy charms.

Draco eyed Jackoby wearily. He wanted to go home. At least he wouldn’t have to Apparate to meet Harry later. He didn’t realize the Phoenix had gotten so popular within the league. Good for Blaise, though.

“Boulevardiers today, then,” Blaise snickered, pouring two glasses. “Cheers. Find me later.”

Draco levitated the drinks to the booth. Jackoby grabbed one straight out of the air and downed it in one go. He slammed the glass back down on the table.

Draco pushed his untouched glass in front of Jackoby. “Take it,” he said.

“I thought you cared about me,” Jackoby accused, cradling Draco’s glass in his hands.

“I do, Jackoby. I’m giving you my drink.”

“I should have known,” Jackoby continued, ignoring Draco. “You never even call me by my first name.”

What was it with everyone insisting on being called by their first name these days? They were in Quidditch, it just wasn’t done. He didn’t even know Krum’s first name. Vector? Vicar? 

Still, he’d do it if it meant calming down his reserve seeker. So he said, “Jamie. I do care.”

“Then how could you lie to me? You said I’d have the potential for a lifelong career with the Arrows, but not even a full year in and you’re ousting me for a new seeker?”

“Jamie, I assure you, all that is still possible. You’re just not ready yet. Wouldn’t you rather a couple of years under the tutelage of a seeker with years of professional experience?”

“No!” Jackoby yelled, banging the table. “I’m ready now, and you know it!”

“No, actually, I don’t,” Draco snarled, meeting fire with fire, “I saw you almost fall off your broom twice during practice today. That kind of infraction may be recoverable in a school game, but it will lose a game in the pro league. Believe me, I would love to not have to recruit for another seeker. I still think you’re the best rookie in the game. But if you let your arrogance get in the way of your growth, you will never make it off the reserve team.”

Jackoby scowled into his stolen drink. Blaise took the opportunity to swing by and drop another in front of Draco, to which Draco accepted gratefully, mouthing an emphatic “thank you” to Blaise over the privacy wards.

“Who’re you gonna bring in then?” Jackoby asked after a while, still sulking.

“Who would you want?”

Jackoby sighed, slumping over the table to cradle his head in his arms. “I want myself.”

Draco felt sorry for him. “It still could be you,” he said gently, “There’s not too many prospects, and Cotton’s retirement isn’t for another year or so. You can still prove yourself in that time.”

Jackoby perked up at that. “So there is a shortlist, then,” he accused.

Draco wanted to roll his eyes at this kid’s naivety. “Of course there’s a shortlist.”

“Who’s on it?”

“Can’t say. You know how Wood is about recruiting. Likes it hush-hush until the ink’s dried.”

But Jackoby wasn’t paying attention to him anymore. He’d narrowed his eyes at someone behind Draco. Someone that Draco dearly hoped wasn’t named Harry Potter, arriving a full hour earlier than they had planned.

“Harry Potter,” Jackoby seethed, as though sizing up his competition. Which, if it wasn’t Draco’s mess to clean up, would have been rather cute, like watching a pygmy puff size up a hippogriff.

“It’s not for certain,” Draco reassured, “He’s on the Wasps. There’s no way a Wasp would come to the Arrows, their fans would have murdered them before the trade would complete.”

Harry was walking toward their table.

“Shit,” Draco muttered under his breath.

“You’re meeting him here,” Jackoby accused, betrayal roughing up his words.

“We’re old acquaintances from school,” Draco lied.

“You hate each other!” Jackoby all but screamed.

“Please give me a moment, Jamie. Please.” 

Draco stepped out of the privacy charms. “Harry, can you give me a moment to finish up with work? Sorry, we’re almost done.” He tried flashing his most apologetic smile.

“Oh. Oh, of course.” Harry was looking at Jackoby, who looked like he wanted to kill him. 

“I’ll tell you later,” Draco said, before ducking back in the charms.

“I’m done with this. I’m leaving,” Jackoby snarled.

“You can’t.”

“Why not?” Jackoby asked hysterically.

“We still have to talk about the papers.”

“Seriously?” Jackoby crumbled. “I followed your fucking lists, Draco. They didn’t work. And now I’m in trouble? Is that why I’m not being considered for seeker?”

Draco winced. “You’re not in trouble. That was my fault. The press admires you more than we anticipated. Maybe - maybe with some glamours —”

“I’m not going to live a lie,” Jackoby said, his voice strangled and pained. “Say I meet someone nice. How can I even explain that? Oh, the person you thought you were hooking up with, that was fake. It’s actually me, sorry. No, I can’t do that. I can’t live with those lies.”

“You’re going to the Serpentine for commitment?” Draco scoffed, thinking back at the grainy newspaper photo of Jackoby in a dark alley, his trousers pooled at his knees, a man’s head between his thighs.

It was the wrong thing to say.

Jackoby’s expression darkened, his eyes narrowing cruelly. “You’re just like everyone else. You think I’m just an idiot Quidditch player going dick first into anything moving. Well, there’s your answer then. If you want me to stop showing up in the stupid paper, you better ‘take care’ of the problem with your own mouth.”

Jackoby couldn’t be suggesting - that Draco - no. “You’re not serious.”

“Oh I’m plenty serious,” Jackoby sneered, “You’ve a pretty enough mouth, might as well use it to do your job properly.” He gathered up his things. “I’m giving you until ten. Otherwise I’m going straight to Serpentine.” He left Draco sitting there with his mouth agape.

Harry slid in the booth across from him, and pushed over a drink. Draco downed it without looking.

“Was that the new reserve seeker?” Harry asked. “Seemed upset.”

“Just some bad news. He’ll get over it.”

Harry frowned. “He’s getting bullied in the papers.” 

“Yeah. He’s tried rotating clubs every night but they still tracked him down, like outing him wasn’t awful enough already. I haven’t seen the paps go so crazy over someone since -” Draco gulped.  _ Since Harry Potter _ , he was going to say. Since Harry Potter had burst onto the front page of the Prophet fresh off the heels of his divorce with Sebastian McPloume in his arms.

“It’s a shame. Been looking forward to seeing him play,” Harry said.

“He’s good. I scouted him,” Draco enthused, feeling a swell of pride toward his errant reserve seeker despite it all.

“He won’t do glamours?”

“No. He’s stubborn. Says he won’t live a lie.” Draco needed to fix this, for Jackoby, for the Arrows. But he didn’t need to figure it out right now. “I didn’t mean for this to turn into a nag sesh,” he apologized to Harry, “Let’s talk about something else.”

Harry eyed Draco sympathetically. “I could talk to him, if you want. As someone who’s gone through it.” 

Draco arched a brow. He’d forgotten how stupidly generous Gryffindors could be with their time. And yet Draco found himself seriously considering Harry’s offer. It would do Jackoby good to have someone to look up to. And then Draco grimaced, remembering the anger in which Jackoby had spat out Harry’s name not even thirty minutes ago.

“Thank you, Harry - but I don’t think he’d want to see you right now. I don’t think he’d take kindly to any seeker right now, with Cotton retiring,” Draco said, hoping Harry would drop it.

Harry furrowed his brows. “Cotton’s retiring?”

Draco nodded. The announcement should have been in the evening post, accompanied with a happy photo of the Cotton family waving in their front yard.

“I suppose I couldn’t convince you to fill in for him?” Draco tried a wink.

“I - what? But Jackoby—”

“Jackoby’s too green. You’d be perfect though, you’re just at the end of your two year contract with the Wasps. We can definitely match what they’ve been comping, and then some. Wood’s been dying to fly with you again, I know he was your first captain—”

“Is this what this is all about? And here I thought it was because you actually wanted to - to —” Harry’s voice rose angrily with every syllable.

Draco grabbed Harry’s hand from across the table to stop him from standing up. “I - no, no-” Draco lied desperately, “Not at all, it’s just - I mean, you know my job, and -” he steadied his voice, his mouth crooking in a shy smile - “You’re the best in the league, can you fault me for trying? I won’t mention it again. I promise.”

Harry was staring at their clasped hands. Draco quickly pulled his back. 

“How’re things? At - um, with - with the Wasps?” Draco asked, trying to change the subject.

Harry was still looking at his hand where Draco had abandoned it alone, on the table. “They’re fine. Still adjusting to the team. It’s - Batteman’s a good captain. Good of them to take me in after Puddlemere. Just - actually, I think I should go - can you ask Blaise to just charge my account. It’s —”

“Harry!” Draco exclaimed, standing up to stop him, but by the time Draco thought of something to say, Harry was gone.

***

“So you’re telling me, in the two weeks that I haven’t seen you, you’ve managed to reconcile and then promptly fuck things up with Potter, and on top of that, your barely legal reserve seeker propositioned you?” Pansy whispered loudly to Draco.

They sat at a table in the window of Cauldron & Brew, Daphne’s bakery she ran a block off Diagon Alley. It was ten in the morning, and Draco had just come in from morning practice with the Arrows.

“I apologized to Potter this morning by owl,” Draco muttered wretchedly.

“Enough about Potter,” Pansy said, her voice suddenly appreciative, “Tell me your lonely reserve seeker isn’t this gorgeous hunk on page six.”

Draco cringed. He hadn’t a chance to see it yet this morning. “How bad?”

Pansy levitated him the paper. In it were side-by-side shots of Jackoby with three different men. Draco wanted to throw up. Wood was going to be furious with him.

“Looks like he followed through on his word,” Pansy smirked.

“This isn’t funny! This is —  _ sexual harassment _ —” 

“Why don’t you just take him up on his offer? You’re gay, he’s fit —”

“Pansy.”

“Or you could let me Polyjuice as you —”

“Merlin, you old hag. When’s the last time you’ve gotten laid?”

“Last week. Unlike you,” Pansy preened. She bit into her cauldron cake.

Draco stared into his coffee, trying to recall the last time someone else had touched his cock. He couldn’t. Unless you counted the accidental brush at the grocery store.

“I would help you,” Pansy said with no intent to help, “But you’re the one with the keys to lockers literally full of fit men. So I’m chalking it up to lack of effort on your part, love.”

“Sod off,” Draco grumbled. “Can we get started now?”

“Of course, love,” Pansy said, wiping her mouth neatly with a paper napkin before clearing the table. She cleared the table with a flick of her wand and shuffled a deck of tarot cards with another. “Who do you want to start with?”

Pansy had picked up Divination after the war. She made house calls for everyone and everything, from Pureblood betrothals to Yule Ball dates, as long as they paid her twenty galleons an hour. She also did Quidditch player readings for Draco, as a favor.

Draco passed her a photo of Cho Chang, the longtime seeker for the Harpies. 

Pansy dealt the spread. “Wheel of fortune, reversed, in the present - bad luck, Death in the past - Cedric Diggory, probably, oh Merlin, Seven of Swords in the future - that’s tactical deception, although a positive if you’re in politics, I suppose. Sorry love, she’s a bad pick.”

Draco frowned, discouraged, but moved on to the next seeker on his list. But every reading came out terrible. Krum was to be so moved by the impending death of his father that he’d quit Quidditch entirely, and Campbell was to suffer a debilitating injury of some sort. “Impulsive, reckless, disregard for consequences,” Pansy drew the King of Swords and read Jackoby like a book, “King of Wands in the future though, very promising.”

“I don’t need the future, I need now,” Draco groaned. He drummed his fingers against the edge of the table. He had no options. He wasn’t going to be able to get a seeker for the Arrows, and then that’ll be the end of his career.

He caught Pansy looking at him expectantly.

“Aren’t you going to ask me about Potter?” Pansy asked. She had her wand posed, ready to deal.

“No. There’s no need.” Harry had already said no, and Draco had promised to not bring it up again. But Harry could be his only option -

“There’s no need,” he reiterated. “Even if it’s a smashing read, he’s already said no. So it wouldn’t change anything.”

Pansy’s mouth twisted into a smirk, but her eyes stayed soft. “Oh love, you must know that’s not how fate works.”

*** 

An owl was waiting for him when he got home after evening practice that day. “It’s alright,” Potter had scrawled on the parchment, “Fancy a fly sometime? Saturday, 3PM, Claudia Greens.”

Draco hastily scrawled his assent.

***

Draco walked on to the pitch at exactly three with his antique Nimbus 2001 in his hand. He had tested it out yesterday and knew it could fly, but he was still nervous since he hadn’t flown since school; he’d dug the broom out from storage just yesterday.

Harry was already waiting for him in the middle of the field, with Jackoby on his right.

Draco stuttered to a stop. What was Jackoby doing here, with Harry? Oh Merlin, did they - were they - Draco hadn’t read anything about it in the morning paper, but maybe in the evening, they were both single and gay and fit as fuck, it’s not like there was anything stopping them from — 

“Draco,” Harry said, his arms crossed. “Jamie here has something he wants to say to you.”

Jackoby shuffled his feet, his hand coming up to scratch the back of his neck. “Err - sorry,” he murmured. “I - err - said some things I didn’t mean last night. I didn’t - I was —”

“It’s alright,” Draco said though he was fairly stunned.

“I - no, it’s not, actually,” Jackoby flushed. He looked up at Harry, who gave him an encouraging nod, before turning back to Draco with a determined glint in his eyes. “What I said to you was unacceptable. It was — unforgivable. I’m truly, so, sorry. I will never do it again. And — and I’m also going to stop going out so much, start spending more time on Quidditch. Doing drills. So I can go for Cotton’s spot. And - and when I do go out, I’ll use glamours. I won’t have time for anything serious, anyway, so - so, it’d be ok.”

Jackoby looked heartbroken.

“It’ll only be for a few years,” Draco said as reassuredly as he could, “Then when you’re off the reserves, you can have your pick. Everyone’ll go crazy for you.”

Harry snorted at that. “It’s not that easy.” Draco moved to retort, but Harry slinged an arm around Jackoby instead and said, “It does get way easier, though, alright kid?” 

Jackoby nodded, flushing.

“When did you two—” Draco started suspiciously.

“Ran into him when I was stopping by to see Oliver,” Harry said.

“And?” Draco prompted.

“And we had a chat,” Harry said easily, but Jackoby’s whole face was bright red now.

“If you’re going to be fraternizing with one of my players, I’d rather know from you than from the papers,” Draco said. It was a practiced line; players in the league often developed relationships with each other. Draco knew how to deal with it. And yet Draco couldn’t keep out the edge in his voice.

“It’s nothing like that!” Jackoby blurted out taking a step toward Draco and catching him by the arm. “I’m —” he flushed an impossible shade darker — “I’ve just always been such a big fan, and - and it’s just, always been a dream, to fly with - you know —” he lowered his voice - “ _ Harry Potter _ .”

Draco glanced at Harry, who winced for the briefest second before saying too loudly, “Alright, can we get on with flying then?”

Jackoby had brought a snitch, which he and Harry immediately chased after once released. Draco flew in big, sweeping circles around them, up and up and up from the pitch until he passed through the mist of a roaming cloud. He breathed in deeply, feeling the smallest of dew drops settling cool on the back of his neck, and wondered why he denied himself of this for so long, why he thought he had to be a seeker or nothing at all.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Harry and Jackoby tussling over a glint of gold. He dived down leisurely at the other end of the pitch toward nothing in particular.

Jackoby reluctantly took his leave after a couple of hours. His mother was due by Portkey from Slovenia in an hour, he said, and wouldn’t Harry please sign his snitch, his mother was the biggest fan - so Harry did, of course, because he was Harry Potter.

“Thanks. I know you don’t like to deal with fans,” Draco said to Harry as they watched Jackoby walk off the pitch.

“It’s no trouble, I’m glad to help. Seems like he was causing you a fair amount of trouble.”

“Yes, well, he was right to be upset. I’d promised him seeker in three years. He wants it now, but,” Draco bit his lower lip, gesturing to the pitch, “As you can see, he’s not ready.”

“What about you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why don’t you go for seeker?”

Draco turned to Harry in surprise. “I’m just a team manager. I haven’t even flown in six years.”

“Why not? You were good. Back in school. I had thought that today we could - like we used to —”

Draco reddened. Harry had thought he’d still be good at Quidditch. But Draco wasn’t - Merlin, Draco wasn’t even worthy of their rivalry anymore, Harry had gone and crushed Draco so thoroughly he’d been reduced to doing laps around the pitch like a child. “Well, sorry I couldn’t live up to your expectations,” he spat out, “Sorry we all couldn’t get scouted straight out of Hogwarts—”

“If you hadn’t thought yourself too good for an eighth year—”

“Too good?  _ Too good? _ ” Draco reeled, seeing red, “We weren’t  _ invited _ . Did you really think we’d turn down our only chance to take NEWTs, our only chance to get jobs that were actually  _ interesting _ —”

“I-” Harry stopped, dropping his hand on Draco’s shoulder. Draco realized that he was trembling, his breath labored. He tried taking a calming breath, but it shook out instead like coins, rattling in his chest.

“I didn’t know. I’m sorry. I thought you would like flying. I thought you liked your job,” Harry was saying, rubbing soothing circles into Draco’s shoulder.

“I do,” Draco said. He liked his job. But he would have liked to be able to choose it over cursebreaking.

Draco’s throat chalked up. Harry hadn’t meant anything by it. He’d just been trying to be nice but Draco fucked it up every time.

“I forgot how much I liked flying,” Draco said weakly, trying for a smile, “Maybe we can fly again next week.”

“Alright,” Harry agreed easily, “But I’m hungry now, let’s get food yeah?”

They got wraps at the Muggle halal cart down the street. Draco didn’t have any pounds on him so Harry paid, saying it was nothing. And it actually was probably nothing to him, Draco thought, thinking of the combined Potter and Black vaults that made up Harry’s fortune. He wondered how much it’d cost Harry to come and touch shoulders with him on a park bench, sharing bits of himself in between bites of lettuce and shawarma.

***

They made the papers the next day. Fourth page - “Harry Potter In Talks With Rival Appleby Arrows?”

“Oliver is furious with me,” Draco confessed to Blaise and Pansy that night at the Phoenix.

“Who’s Oliver?” Pansy asked. She rifled through the paper, looking for the article.

“Oliver Wood. Brown hair, intense brows. Bit stern looking but abs of steel,” Blaise explained.

Pansy leaned into the bar, interested. “Straight?”

Blaise smirked. “Bi.”

“I’m beginning to think you two’re only friends with me for my Quidditch roster,” Draco complained.

“Not entirely untrue,” Pansy said, nose back in the paper. “Don’t see that rookie in the papers much anymore, you take him up on his offer, Draco?”

“Ooh, what offer?” Blaise asked.

“Don’t start—” Draco said the same time Pansy said, “Said he’d stop going to clubs if Draco dearest’d suck him off.”

Blaise let out a low whistle. “I’d have taken that offer in a heartbeat.”

“He’s a child!” Draco cried, aghast. “I was sexually harassed by a child!”

Pansy rolled her eyes.

“Can we go back to my Potter problem,” Draco whined.

“I don’t see how it’s much of a problem,” Blaise shrugged, “Just say you were on a date.”

Draco spat out his drink.

“Ooooh,” Pansy cooed, flipping the paper back to page four, “You’re right Blaise, Draco looks positively besotted. And - are their thighs touching?”

“We’re not -”

“We’re not saying you are,” Blaise said wolfishly, “But if everyone thought you were, wouldn’t that solve your problem?”

Draco considered it. He considered it for too long for what it was, which was one of Blaise’s and Pansy’s ridiculous ideas to poke fun at him.

“Speak of the devil,” Blaise said, eyeing the door behind Draco. 

“Don’t tell me it’s Potter.”

“No,” Blaise said, sounding too amused for Draco’s liking, “He only comes around when he’s got something with you.”

“Who are they?” Pansy swiveled in her seat to take a look at the crowd that had just entered.

“Quidditch players,” Blaise smirked.

Draco finally turned to look. They were the Tutshill Tornados, coming fresh from a win, their Quidditch leathers still on.

“Nice,” Pansy leered, “How’d your bar end up being the go-to for the British Quidditch league?”

“Word gets around.” Blaise winked at Draco. “We’re good at discretion.”

“I need a new bar,” Draco grumbled, before getting up and going over to congratulate the Tornados captain. They had played a good game against the Falcons, so it was easy for Draco to be sincere in his praise.

“Want to join us?” Krum asked Draco, and because Draco didn’t say no to first team players or childhood crushes, he pulled up a chair. Pansy joined them and did drunk tarot readings for laughs until she’d sidled up against their keeper close enough to whisper in his ear to get out of here. Draco watched Pansy leave enviously, and thought that perhaps he’d pull a beater, or maybe Blaise, for old time’s sake, but Blaise only laughed at him when he asked, so eventually the night winded down and he floo’d home alone.

***

On Saturday, Draco found Harry waiting for him in the middle of the pitch. Harry brought a snitch, and they chased after it leisurely, getting close but never actually catching it, until it finally gave up and flew straight into Draco’s hand as he was twisting out of a lazy corkscrew.

“You won,” Harry congratulated, grinning toothily even though they both hadn’t really been trying at all. “This was fun. Want to get dinner now?”

“Yes, I’m famished,” Draco agreed heartily, beaming back brightly until he caught himself. And then he frowned, and said, “Although - maybe we shouldn’t, the papers - I won’t want them to get the wrong idea.”

Harry blinked. “You mean the article about me going over to the Arrows?”

Draco nodded. “Even as a speculation that can’t be good for you, especially with the animosity between our two teams.”

“But isn’t that -” Harry started to say, but instead said, “What do you want them to believe?”

“Nothing, preferably,” Draco said honestly.

“Then, what,” Harry wet his lip, “do you think we’re doing here?”

Draco wasn’t sure. He knew he couldn’t say work, because he’d promised Harry that he wouldn’t. But if he wasn’t here for work, then why was he here? And if he were perfectly honest, even if he were working, if he’d ask most recruits to meet at his office, or maybe the Phoenix if he particularly wanted them. He would never spend an entire afternoon chasing around a snitch with a recruit, no matter who they were, except perhaps if they were Harry Potter.

Draco looked up at Harry just in time to see the bright green of Harry’s eyes before Harry leaned in and kissed him.

Draco kissed back, of course - Harry Potter was a bloody good kisser - before his mind caught up in his mouth and he had to stop. “I’m - I’m -” Draco stammered, pulling back, but Harry wasn’t upset. He murmured, “it’s fine, stop thinking,” as though he could read Draco’s mind (and maybe he could? Couldn’t he read You-Know-Who’s mind, back in school?), so Draco stopped thinking, and when he did, he found he couldn’t stop pressing into the warmth of Harry’s lips, his chest, his broad shoulders.

They went to a Muggle curry place after, because Harry swore the paps wouldn’t find them there, and Draco believed him, and kissed him over papri chaat, revelling in how Harry’s mouth moved like liquid against his own.

***

But Harry had been wrong. The paps had found them, and they’d made it above the fold.

Draco expected Oliver to be angry. Maybe not as angry as when they’d lost the championship in overtime, but at least angry enough to slam the paper down on his table and yell at him a little. But Oliver just sighed and stared at the wall while Draco fidgeted in the hard chair across from his desk and wondered if he was going to get fired.

Draco needed to fix this. He knew what Oliver wanted, what he needed to do.

“I’ll get you the contract,” Draco promised.

Oliver jolted up as though he’d forgotten that Draco was still in the room. “That’s not what I’m worried about,” he said, brown eyes blinking owlishly before leaning back in his chair and letting out a loud sigh. “What’s your angle, Draco? Swap out the marriage contracts for Quidditch ones, pray he’ll never notice? You can’t trick him into playing for us by dating him,”

“I’m not—”

“It’ll only make it worse, your relationship.”

“We’re not—”

“And- wait, what? You’re not?”

“I’m not. I’m not trying to be anything to him. I was just doing my job, like you asked me to,” Draco said. It was true. He just needed to kill the part of him that had dared hope that he could be with Harry Potter.

Oliver scowled. “Don’t lie.”

“I’m not lying.”

“You were caught kissing  _ on camera _ , how’s that not—”

“He’s affectionate with everyone.”

“I’m not sure—”

“I’m a Death Eater,” Draco said and with every word it felt truer and truer. Of course there wasn’t anything between him and Harry. He had been delusional, to think that Harry would want anything like that from someone like him.

“Draco.” Oliver furrowed his brow as though he were concerned, but there was nothing to be concerned about.

“I’ll get you the contract,” Draco promised again.

***

Harry owled him the next day. “Same time same place?”

Draco didn’t respond for two days. He eventually said, “Can’t make it, apologies. Have you given any more thought about the Arrows? Good team. Can set up a tryout match if interested,” with a fat dot over the C where he’d left his quill down too long trying to figure out what to write.

Harry’s next owl nipped Draco sharply on the fingers. “You said you wouldn’t mention it again,” Harry’s untidy scrawl accused.

“I did. I’m sorry. But you would be doing me a great favor to reconsider,” Draco owled.

Harry didn’t owl back.

***

Draco watched Harry’s next game from the league box with Oliver Wood.

“Potter’s not doing well,” Oliver said.

“Not his fault. Beaters are harassing him,” Draco said, his eyes never leaving the game.

“Wasp chasers are doing well though.”

“No,” Draco said. He watched them zip up and around Harry in neat formations while his Self-Writing Quill took notes beside him.

“No? They’re up 80.”

“Not enough to make up for a lost snitch,” Draco said, “They’re too distracting. Not giving Potter enough space to look for the snitch.”

“Could be,” Oliver said, nodding. “What do you think of Summerby?”

Draco hadn’t been watching Summerby at all. He searched for the other seeker on the pitch, and spotted him just as he went for a dive.

Summerby missed the snitch. “He’d have made it if his broom’d been waxed,” Draco commented, “Even Jackoby knows to keep his broom waxed.”

“Let’s get him to tryouts,” Oliver said when Summerby caught the snitch thirty minutes later.

Draco agreed because Summerby wasn’t terrible. He could catch the snitch, win a game, maybe a championship if he was on the right team. But he wasn’t Harry Potter.

Draco couldn’t understand why Harry would choose to stay with a team that took him for granted when Draco could offer him so much more. But then again, Harry could never stand the idea of being on the same team as Draco. Even when they were young and stupid at Hogwarts and all they had to disagreed on were things like school houses or hippogriffs or if Hagrid was a good teacher or not, Harry had insisted that Draco was wrong when Draco had just been trying to look out for the both of them. And when their polarity grew impossibly over the years swelling to the war, Harry still clung to Dumbledore’s side even as they used him carelessly for their means time after time again. Even when they ordered him to die.

Draco wondered if this was how it was always going to be, Harry on one side, Draco on the other.

It wasn’t Draco’s fault that he was always forced to fight Harry. If only Harry chose him over them for once. If only Harry could trust Draco, then maybe - maybe Draco could have been a hero, too -

Or maybe Draco would have lost them the war. Harry had been right about Draco’s side in the end anyway, so maybe he had been right to not trust Draco after all.

But still. He had to try. And it was really only Quidditch.

Later that night, Draco sat at his kitchen counter and started to write to Harry about why he should join the Arrows, but he ended up with twenty-four inches of what was essentially postgame analysis and decided it was too ridiculous to send. So he didn’t. He wrote an owl to Summerby instead, asking if he wanted to meet sometime, maybe at the Silver Thestral? 

***

Summerby flew in lazy loops around the goalposts.

“He’s not going to work,” Oliver sighed.

Draco snorted. He’d known that as soon as he’d sat down for lunch and Summerby had ordered a bacon cheeseburger with egg and a pint of Wizard’s Brew and told Draco to “live a little, ya?” when Draco had raised his brow.

Jackoby came up to Draco after the tryout, grinning cheekily as though to say “seriously? That guy?”

“Don’t start,” Draco muttered.

“Come to my next practice. I’ll show you a real seeker,” Jackoby promised. Draco rolled his eyes.

***

Blaise was waiting for him the next evening when he got back to his flat.

“You hadn’t been around the bar in a while,” Blaise explained.

“Been busy,” Draco said.

“Thought you would want to know that Potter came around a couple times,” he smirked.

“I don’t.” Draco cleared his throat. “I don’t want to know.”

Blaise sighed. He picked up the parchment that Draco had left on the table, the one that he’d set out to send to Harry. “This is pretty good,” he said, “I bet I can get it published. I know the gal who runs the Quidditch section of the Prophet. She comes to the bar on Thursdays. Nice knockers, tips well.”

“It’s not — don’t be ridiculous. Nobody wants to read what I wrote.”

“Well, we won’t have to use your name, okay?” Blaise said, tucking the parchment away in his robe. “Now, can we drink?”

***

Harry showed up to Jackoby’s practice the next day and sat down next to Draco. “Said he’d show me how a real seeker flies,” Harry muttered, not looking at Draco but talking to him all the same.

Draco couldn’t help but laugh. “That cocky bastard fed me the same line. I’ll bet 10 galleons that he practices it in the mirror every morning.”

Harry grinned just as Jackoby whizzed by their box with a loud, reckless whoop.

“He’s better,” Draco commented halfway through the practice match, “But still unsteady. What do you think?”

“I think his unpredictability could be an advantage,” Harry said.

Draco scoffed. “Of course you’ll say that. You’ll even catch a snitch with your mouth.” Harry grinned again, bumping his shoulder against Draco’s.

They all went to the Phoenix after practice, where Jackoby bought the first round for everyone, even Pansy, who showed up two minutes after them with her lips ready-to-pull red.

“Who’re you going to scout next?” Harry asked politely. They still weren’t sure how to act around each other yet. Draco thought he’d try for friendly though.

“I was thinking Campbell,” Draco said, mentally running down his increasingly short shortlist.

“Not her!” Pansy gasped, sloshing her rosé over the table.

“What’ve you against Campbell?” Harry edged a bit defensively.

“Nothing personally,” she drawled, “Just” - she turned to Draco now, speaking with some urgency - “Draco, love, you know her reading was no good.”

“I know,” Draco groaned. Harry looked confused, so Draco explained, “Pansy always does tarot readings for me before I recruit. Campbell’s supposed to get injured sometime soon.”

“And you believed that?” Harry laughed.

Pansy turned up her nose. “This isn’t some Muggle astrology voodoo, Potter. This is Divination, and I’m very good at it. My readings are always accurate. Ask any of my clients.”

“She really is,” Draco nodded, “She foretold that Wood would get captain.”

“Anyone with eyes knew that Wood was a shoe-in for captain,” Harry grumbled, but he didn’t roll his eyes again. “Why don’t you try Cho?”

“Her reading wasn’t great,” Draco said.

“Although in retrospect not so bad compared to the others.” Pansy said.

“Alright, alright, I’ll talk to her,” Draco said, throwing up his hands.

“What’s wrong with me?” Jackoby whined, drunk and half-draped over Draco.

“Oh, nothing, darling,” Pansy purred.

Harry nudged Pansy. “So you’ve done a read on me then?”

“What? No.”

“But you said you’ve done one for all of the seekers.”

Pansy shrugged. “Draco said no.” She turned her attention back to Jackoby, and asked him where he lived. He pulled an arm around her waist, and whispered back. She giggled.

Draco rolled his eyes at Harry.

“Why not?” Harry asked Draco.

“Merlin, you don’t know when to drop something, do you? Why does it matter? You told me you weren’t interested. That’s clearer than the cards would ever be.”

Harry looked miffed. “I didn’t say no.”

Draco raised a brow. “You’ve been pretty clear that you don’t want to discuss the position with me.”

“Yeah, with you, but I would with Wood, or anyone else.”

Draco’s guard went up. “What’s wrong with me? The righteous Potter doesn't want to make a deal with a former Death Eater?”

“That’s not - that’s not what I mean. That’s the -”

“Then what is it?”

“I just don’t want any conflict of interest.”

“Why would there be any conflict of interest?”

“Because—” Harry stumbled on his words here. His neck started to redden. “Because I want to date you. Merlin, how was that not obvious?”

Oh.

Well, Draco supposed it was obvious. The paps had caught them kissed and all. And Draco had definitely felt something. But just because he wanted it didn’t mean it would be good for him. And he had other wants too, like a simple life where the only people who had an opinion of him were people who knew him personally and generally liked him even if they sometimes got annoyed with him. He couldn’t have that if he had any semblance of a relationship with Harry Potter; even a working relationship was somehow worth twisting into four inches of speculative animosity in the Prophet.

“I don’t want there to be any conflict,” Draco said, determinedly looking at the smooth brass of his cup handle.

“Draco,” Pansy said softly beside him. 

***

Draco wanted to leave Chang’s practice five minutes after it started. He knew she wasn’t the right one. Pansy’s readings were never wrong. He stayed for the whole two hours though, because Blaise wanted to get some snitches autographed to put up at the Phoenix.

Ginny Weasley ran after them on his way to the Apparition Point. “I heard you’re looking for a seeker,” she said.

Draco turned. “And?”

“Me. It’s me. I’m your seeker.”

“No you’re not. You’re a chaser,” Draco said. Ginny Weasley was probably one of the best chasers in the league, actually, and was the brain behind the impressive display of coordination behind all of their plays.

“Yeah, I mean, for now. I wanna switch,” She tossed her red hair back, still sweaty from practice. “I’ve been practicing a lot these days. Harry’s been coaching me. I’ll show you. I’m good.”

“Oh come on Draco, give her a chance,” Blaise said.

Draco threw an aggravated glare at Blaise. Of course Blaise would say that, he was probably Ginny Weasley’s number fan. He bought the Harpies calendar and kept August folded back all year long.

“I’ll think about it,” he told her.

***

Ginny was there at the bar the next night, leaning up against the counter in her green and yellow Quidditch leathers while Blaise spoke between smirks. Draco tensed, sensing a trap. He was halfway through the door — they hadn’t spotted him yet, he could just leave — and then he sighed and walked up to the counter. Might as well get it done with. He still needed a seeker.

“Weasley,” he said.

“Draco. I’ll get you a drink,” Blaise said, the corners of his mouth twitching to rein in his smirk.

Ginny had the paper folded back to the sports section. “Did you read this new columnist they’ve got? Whoever they’ve got must be a real pro; their analysis of the Wasps-Falcons game is spot on. I’ve been saying for years that their chasers do more harm than good.”

“Well, you’re here,” Draco said, ignoring her attempt at small talk. “Pitch me.”

“Pitch  _ you _ ? I thought it was your job to recruit  _ me _ .”

He crossed his arms. Trust Weasley to give him cheek when he was already doing her a favor by showing up at all. “Don’t tell me you’re just here to have a drink with Blaise.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t give me that shit. Harry’s caught me up; it’s not like you’re flushed with pickings either. Don’t make it like I’m on my knees begging for a job here, this is going to be a mutual partnership or nothing at all. In two years you’ll be begging  _ me _ to stay when I’ve got two championships under my belt.”

“Alright,” Draco said, “Let’s assume you’re as good as you say. You’re still a woman. You’ll want children. Maybe not right away, but in four years time at best given your biological clock and all, and then I’m out a seeker again. So why’d I want someone like you?”

Ginny narrowed her eyes and shot a look at Blaise. “Are you kidding me?” she exclaimed, loud and outraged and even a bit shocked, “Tell me Pansy doesn’t just put up with your 19th century views. I don’t even  _ want _ children, for one, but even if I did, what’s it to you? I could get a surrogate, I could hire a nanny, I could definitely make it work — or I could stop seeking entirely, who  _ cares? _ You’ll still have a stellar seeker up until that point, and Merlin knows there’s benches of reserve seekers looking to take my place.  _ So what’s it to you? _ ”

She was breathing heavily now, her brows furrowed furiously, a bright flush bloomed under her freckled cheeks. Draco instinctively knew that he’d wronged her — even though his brain hadn’t processed enough to figure out exactly  _ how _ — and that she was giving him a chance to apologize, to take back his words before they festered out of his control, so he opened his mouth to do so, but what came out was —

“You talk to Pansy?”

It was the wrong thing to say. Ginny looked like she was going to strangle Draco.

Blaise thumped his hands on the counter. They swung to look at him. He had a deliberately mild expression schooled on his face, the type that he usually employed to break up bar fights. It was impressively effective; like water on hot coals. Draco was immediately abashed.

“Weasley,” Draco said, turning back to Ginny, his voice strangled, “I — Please, I’m not — I’m still — I don’t mean to upset you, I — can you give me a moment?”

Ginny narrowed her eyes. Blaise cut in quickly, saying, “You’ll have to excuse him, you see, he’s got about two centuries worth of women’s rights to catch up on. Pansy and I’ve got him to the 1830s perhaps but it’s slow work.” He tried for a wink.

But Draco was starting to realize that Ginny’s points were all irrefutable. He would love a seeker who could commit to a decade but that wasn’t realistic. Hell, even Cotton barely committed to a full decade and he’d only stuck to one team his entire career. And even if she only gave him two years, it didn’t even matter anyway, because Jackoby would be ready. And — 

“I’m sorry,” Blaise prompted.

“I’m sorry,” Draco found himself saying, and once he said it the rest came surprisingly easy, like all that’d been jamming up his humility was misplaced pride. “I shouldn’t have assumed that just because you’re a woman you’d want to have kids. And I shouldn’t have assumed either that having children would override your commitment to Quidditch; it’s ultimately your choice.”

Ginny gaped at him. And then she pursed her lips. And then she opened her mouth again; if she did it anymore she might as well have been transfigured into a goldfish, her tossle of autumn hair swishing like a fin in water. But of course Draco didn’t say that outloud, because the angry clench in her jaw was just starting to slacken. Eventually she said, “I didn’t think you’d admit that so quick.”

“Everything else got a bit easier to admit to after I had to admit I was wrong about the whole Dark Lord thing,” Draco tried joking.

She threw back her head and laughed. “Alright, Malfoy. How about you come by the Burrow tomorrow afternoon? We’ve got a field set up in the back with plenty of room to impress you.” 

Seekers, they came in every shape and size but only ever in one flavor: cocky. “Alright, why not,” Draco said, holding out his hand. She took it and shook.

***

Draco started in on his second drink sitting at the counter and watching Blaise take orders and mix drinks and wipe down the counter like he used to do every night back when the bar first opened. Eventually Blaise made his way out of Draco’s sight to the back storage room, so Draco’s own gaze traveled and fell on the paper that Ginny had left when she’d taken off earlier. Draco took it and read the headline.  _ Did The Wasps Make the Right Play? _ And then he immediately recognized his own unsent owl to Harry, revised and published under a pseudonym.

“Did you do this?” Draco demanded, waving the paper up.

Blaise was unloading a box of bitters; he held up a finger for him to wait.

Draco didn’t know whether to be annoyed or pleased. He’d always wanted to publish something, he just never thought anyone would want to read it, especially from a former Death Eater. But here it was. And Ginny had said it was good.

“Alright, I’m waiting for my thanks,” Blaise said, squinting smugly down at Draco.

“Thanks,” Draco grumbled, “Thanks for going behind my back and publishing —”

“A couple’ve players already came up to me and talked about how much they liked it,” Blaise said, “One was wearing a Wasps jersey, even.”

Draco swirled his drink. He wasn’t going to say thanks again.

Blaise slid over a calling card. “They’re expecting the one for the game today by 9PM tonight.”

Draco glared reproachfully at the card. And then reached over and slipped it into his pocket. “How’d Pansy get all chummy with Weasley anyway?”

“Invited her out for drinks after you left yesterday. Pansy showed up. Turns out she’s bi, did you know?”

“Who?”

Blaise leaned in, eyes twinkling. “Both.”

Draco owled Pansy.

*** 

The Kestrals were leading the Magpies 90-30.

“The Hierophant, reversed. Three of Pentacles, Two of Swords.” Pansy withdrew her wand and surveyed the spread she’d dealt in the space between them on the bleacher seats. Murray shot another ten points through the hoop.

“Ginny’s checking out alright, it’s just the swords that’d worry me. I’m not entirely sure on the interpretation though, it could mean that either she’s got a bout of indecision about giving up chaser for seeker, or that you’ve got to decide between equally skilled seekers.”

The snitch darted by, Kiely a second too late. “Probably the former then, I haven’t even got a single seeker to choose from.”

Pansy tapped a crimson nail to her lip, thinking. “She seemed pretty sure she wanted seeker though.” She moved her hand down to caress the Hierophant softly. “Either way it doesn’t mean much until you’ve seen her fly. The other two are solid enough; she’d be a good teammate, probably a bit nontraditional. But we knew that already.”

“You more than me,” Draco grumbled.

Pansy dragged a nail down the metal ridges of the bleacher seats. “What’s so bad about Ginny anyway?”

“I’m —”

It’s just that Ginny Weasley had always been on Harry’s side of things, so hooking up with her felt like a betrayal. Like Pansy was crossing over to Harry’s side too.

Maddock kicked the snitch toward Campbell, who nearly tumbled off his broom as it sailed over his head and straight into Kiely’s palm. The crowd rose up all at once, cheers like the castle-high waves of a tsunami crashing over the field. Draco was still too shocked to move. Had he seen right? Did Maddock really end the game with one swift kick of the snitch, like it was some sort of Muggle sportsball, straight into the rival seeker’s palm? Technically kicking the snitch was a legal move, but Quidditch had always been more of a free-for-all than an exhaustive list of Dos and Don’ts. Did Maddock develop a new technique? Or was he just stupid? Draco was already thinking of his next column. With a game-ender like that, the inches practically wrote themselves.

Pansy let out a loud whoop. Draco looked up at her in surprise. She was standing up, her cheeks flushed, grinning wildly as the Kestrals did a victory lap around the pitch. For a moment he couldn’t believe that this was his Pansy — the Pansy who’d never watched a Quidditch game before coming to Hogwarts, who’d probably would never have watched any game if Draco hadn’t forced her to come to so many of his — hollering at the pitch wearing a sky blue Arrows jersey. 

Draco grabbed her hand, feeling a bit foolish at how he’d handled the whole Ginny situation, because obviously Pansy was on his side. She was right next to him. She’d always been right next to him.

***

The gold glint of the snitch caught bright in the sun. Ginny dove after it; Jackoby a breath behind.

“Told you she was good,” Harry said.

Draco shifted his weight. “Remind me again why you’re here?”

“I’ve been coaching them.”

“Ah right. Coaching them for the one spot on the Arrows. Tell you what, why don’t you do us all a favor and put us all out of our misery by taking the spot yourself?”

Jackoby whizzed by. “Are you even watching us?” he shouted.

“Or are you enjoying a banter?” Ginny walloped half a second later. Half a second too late; Jackoby caught the snitch.

“Good one,” Ginny grinned, punching Jackoby in the shoulder. He flushed, pleased, and let the snitch go. They counted to ten and then took off again.

“Idiots,” Draco mumbled almost affectionately.

“The problem is, they’re both good,” Draco said to Harry after Ginny caught the next snitch a hair’s breadth away from the grass.

Harry gasped, throwing a hand dramatically over his chest.

“Yes, yes,” Draco conceded, “I thought I’d never say that either. Jackoby’s really improved too. It’s only been, what, two weeks? Have you been coaching him this whole time? I don’t think he’s ever flown this fluidly.”

Draco turned to Harry when he didn’t reply. Harry’s cheeks were flushed. “Are you — embarrassed?” Draco asked, a bit bewildered, “After that miniscule amount of praise? I’d imagine you’d be accustomed to an exorbitant assortment of accolades by now.”

“You’d be surprised,” Harry mumbled, and turned an impossibly deeper shade of red.

***

The four of them headed to the Phoenix after. They recapped the match earlier that day; Draco had got together a column in time for the evening paper, so naturally Ginny wanted to discuss it, so Draco had to sit through the next two hours talking about a column he wrote without actually taking credit for it. And as someone who  _ liked _ getting credit for his work, he practically died.

It wasn’t all bad though. Besides, by his fourth drink, Draco had entirely forgotten that he’d written the article himself.

Then the Cannons had shown up, because apparently that’s just what you did after Quidditch practice these days, and Ginny walked off to catch up with one of the chasers whom she’d grown up with; their dads had gone to Hogwarts together. And then the Tornadoes walked in, and Jackoby got a bit starry-eyed and wandered off to hover around Krum. Blaise was nearly flying behind the bar himself, levitating drinks across the room with his wand hand while wiping down the table with his other.

Harry cleared his throat. Draco looked up at him a bit woozy from his drink and realized that it was just the two of them at the booth now, and Harry was looking straight at him in that soft but unrelenting way that made Draco want to run away. But instead his gaze slid to Harry’s mouth.

Harry’s mouth was moving now, grinning between words. Draco nodded, unhearing, but didn’t protest when Harry stood up and led him to the Floo with one hand on the small of his back. Draco didn’t protest either when the Floo lit up to 12 Grimmauld Place and Harry pulled him through. He didn’t protest even when Harry pushed him up against the brick and mortar of the fireplace and kissed him, still smelling of ash and soot. Instead he raised his hands up into Harry’s curls and gripped him in closer, vaguely wondering why they’d waited so long to do this again, after that first time. If the third time was any better than this he might just die.

***

Draco remembered why the next day when he lurched awake in Harry’s bed with Harry’s bare arm thrown over his waist.

“What’s it?” Harry mumbled, lashes fluttering dark against the white of the pillowcase, his face half-creased in sleep. He pushed up on one elbow, twisting toward Draco with his eyes still closed. “Late? Got some,” a soft yawn, “someplace to be?” He blinked his eyes open. After all these years and still they startled Draco, to have them fixed on him like that.

Draco shook his head.

“No sense in being awake then,” Harry said, dragging Draco down back beneath the sheets and nestling his head in the crook of Draco’s shoulder.

“Wait — no,” Draco protested, pushing Harry off so that Harry rolled onto his back.

“Alright, what’s it this time,” Harry said resignedly. He sat up and reached for his glasses.

Draco pushed himself up by his elbows. “What?”

“This,” Harry said, gesturing toward Draco. “Your next set of reasons why this won’t work. Let’s hear it.”

Draco dragged his knees into his chest and wrapped both arms around himself. “Nothing’s changed. I’m — I manage a Quidditch team. I’m trying to recruit you. It’s — it’s a conflict of interests. It’s not professional.”

Harry reached out a hand and brushed a lock of hair from Draco’s face, tucking it behind his ear. His touch was so warm; Draco felt himself leaning into it.

“We talked about this last night. Remember?” Harry said gently. “I’m quitting the league. I’ve been offered the Flying instructor position at Hogwarts. I didn’t want to tell you until I was certain I wanted to do it. But now that you’ve got two seekers to choose between, I’m sure. I want to do it. I love coaching. Coaching Ginny and Jackoby helped me realize that. So — no conflict.”

Draco wanted to get mad, yell at him for leading him on when he knew all along that he wasn’t ever going to sign with the Arrows. But Draco couldn’t summon the energy to react at all. In truth Draco had been resigned to this from the start. He’d known that Harry would never actually join the Arrows. Harry would never join the same team as Draco. It just wasn’t how things ever worked. Even now Draco could feel the dividing line once again being redrawn between the two of them, the line that simply really wanting to kiss someone couldn’t erase.

Harry had his hand by the side of Draco’s face again, rubbing soft circles along Draco’s jaw. “Say something,” he said, “You’re making me nervous.”

Draco looked up from his arms. Harry was smiling, soft and earnest. Draco wanted to kiss him. But instead he said, “We’re just too different. We’re always — there’s always going to be a — a conflict of interests with us. We — we’ve  _ never _ agreed.”

Harry’s hand stilled against his face. Draco followed Harry’s gaze and found Harry looking at the Mark. Draco snatched his arm away, but Harry caught it seeker-quick, and pulled his arm down so that the Mark shone clearly in the morning light. Harry traced a rough finger down the snake until it ended at the wrist.

He closed his grip around Draco’s wrist, his eyes still on the Mark. “Do you regret it?”

“Yes,” Draco said.

Harry looked up and met his eyes. “Good. Then we agree.” He dropped Draco’s wrist and moved in.

Draco leaned back, panicked. “I — I still think Hagrid was a horrible teacher!”

Harry rolled his eyes. “He was. I’m biased, I know. I’m not looking to agree with you on everything. That’d be delusional.”

Draco squawked. He wanted to insist that Harry was the delusional one here, to be so naive as to disregard their incompatibilities, of which there were many, Draco was already making long mental scrolls of them, inches and inches of kindle for future fights, never mind the topics they haven’t even touched upon yet, but Harry’s mouth had met his by then and his roar of fears faded with the soft touch of Harry’s hand behind his head.

***

Draco sat at Harry’s kitchen table. It was a simple, cheerful thing of solid beech, bright against the dark grey damask walls. Kreacher sat on the opposite end, watching and waiting for his opportunity to be useful. His chance came a minute later: Harry dropped a fork. Another came only three minutes later. Harry was really a rather clumsy creature. It was a wonder how he’d gotten so good at seeking.

Harry dropped a plate of eggs in front of Draco. He dropped another in front of Kreacher. Which would’ve been routine, if it hadn’t been the first time Draco had ever watched a house-elf eat, and had up until that moment assumed that house-elves absorbed their energy by some magical mean, like — through flowers, or the moon, or — something surely not so simple as  _ scrambled eggs _ . 

“Don’t tell me you’re overthinking things again,” Harry grinned, pulling out his own chair. He’d already picked up a slice of bacon with his fingers and was tearing at it in exactly the same manner as his owl.

Draco shook his head. He stabbed at his eggs and took a bite. It went down queasy. The silence stretched. Draco groped at something to say, something, something safe — 

“Weasley and Jacoby,” Draco said. “I’m. I’m thinking about them.” He turned to Harry. “Who would you sign?”

Harry shrugged. “They’re both good. But I guess that’s your problem.” He grinned, leaning over and dropping a kiss on Draco’s cheek. He looked so comfortable in his loose-knit jumper that Draco wanted to bury his face in it and stop thinking entirely.

Draco wiped at his cheek absently. “Ginny could go to the Wasps.”

Harry scowled. “I wouldn’t wish that team on anyone. You said so yourself, in your first column —”

“Not true, I just said that the way you seek didn’t play well with their chasers. But Ginny, she’s been a chaser. She’ll already know how they think.” Draco’s voice rose, excited. “Merlin, she’d probably get them all trained up on kicking the snitch at her. She — she could change the entire way Quidditch is played.” He could already see her on the pitch, a streak of red among chasers kicking the snitch left and right while beaters batted Quaffles through the goal hoops. 

He came back down to Harry’s kitchen. Harry was beaming a thousand lumos at him. “Merlin, it’s so hot when you talk shop,” Harry said, voice rough. And then he tackled Draco to the floor.

***

It wasn’t until later that night when Harry was reading the evening paper that Draco remembered Harry’s comment about his column. It didn’t really matter to Draco if Harry knew he wrote it; Blaise probably told him. But Draco asked anyway.

Harry frowned. “What do you mean? Your name’s written right on it.” He folded the paper back to show Draco the byline, and sure enough, there it was -  _ Draco Lucius Malfoy _ . 

“I charmed your papers,” Blaise shrugged when Draco asked him about it the next day. “It was simple. Now can you stop stressing about it? People love you, despite — you. Whatever.”

Except it couldn’t have been that simple. Draco read the paper every morning and every evening and sometimes at the bar. Blaise would have had to sneaked into his flat twice a day, for weeks, just to charm his papers. And that wasn’t even considering the charm itself, which obfuscated Draco’s name to Draco alone, and would have only been accomplished with  _ blood magic _ . 

Still, Draco only needed to take one look around at the phoenixes sliding up the wallpaper and circling the ceiling, some chasing snitches, some breathing smoke of purple and green, for him to admit that perhaps it had been just that simple to Blaise Zabini, master of charms.

Jackoby stayed with the Arrows to succeed Cotton; Ginny went to the Wasps. Pansy picked up a Wasps jersey, which caused Ginny and Draco to bicker so much that she started wearing a Magpies jersey instead, to spite both of them. You can see her wearing it in the stands of the 2006 World Cup, a single speck of black in a sea of yellow wasps and blue arrows.

Harry taught first years and second years and third years how to fly. On the weekends he started perfecting a series of tricks he’d begun developing on the broom. He named one — a front flip with a 540-degree rotation — the McTwist. And then he doubled the front flips and added a back flip and called it the Double McTwist. And then he developed a new range of cushioning charms.

It wasn’t long before Hogwarts students were sneaking in their friends from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons and sometimes even their parents to come see Harry do his air tricks. The crowd became so unmanageable that McGonagall demanded Harry do something about it, and when Harry couldn’t figure out what to do, the task fell on Draco.

So Draco started reserving Quidditch pitches during the off-season for Harry’s air tricks, and from that the new sport really took off. In the sport’s second year, a Durmstrang kid demoed a new trick that involved doing a handstand, letting go of the broom, diving down in a free-fall, and catching the broom three feet from the ground to swing back up. The next year, Ginny Weasley added three somersaults to the free-fall.

Draco attempted the trick later that afternoon with Harry watching on the side. He climbed up until he hit the clouds. He did a handstand. He dropped his broom. And then he fell through the sky, wondering if this was what it felt like to fall in love.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read! I had a lot of fun making up Quidditch things despite not being a sportsball fan at all.


End file.
